


the mirror crack'd from side to side

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [85]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, M/M, Mirror Universe, Multiple Universes Colliding, Mutual Pining, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unhappy Ending, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 08:23:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12723039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: The day Merlin manages to walk through the mirror is also the day that Arthur marries Gwen, which is probably not a coincidence.





	the mirror crack'd from side to side

 

The day Merlin manages to walk through the mirror is also the day that Arthur marries Gwen, which is probably not a coincidence. It’s a magic mirror, after all; it makes sense that it's activated more by emotion than intent, and in that moment all Merlin wants is to get away. He touches the silver frame with his fingers, feeling the hum of power around its edges, and says to the mirror, “ _cy∂an_.”

 

The mirror obeys him.

 

 

 

 

The world inside the mirror is identical to the one he has just left, with some notable exceptions. Instead of red, the Camelot crest is blue, the dragon embossed in silver instead of gold. Arthur’s chambers are so tidy it’s as if no one lives there, and Merlin infers—somewhat bitterly—that his manservant in this reality must be a lot more efficient than Merlin is in his own. Which begs the question—is there a Merlin here at all? Is Arthur his destiny in every universe, or only in one of them?

 

He gets his answer when the door opens and Arthur himself steps inside. Merlin doesn’t try to hide, even though it’s stupid; there’s no telling whether this Arthur knows him, or knows _about_ him, but either way he trusts that Arthur will not hurt him. Only—this isn't Arthur, or at least, not the happy king that Merlin has just left to enjoy his wedding day. This Arthur’s face is older, bearded, a thin scar curving across the weathered skin of one cheek. When he sees Merlin he stops, one hand going to his sword, but a moment later he relaxes into resignation and his hand drops away.

 

“So,” he says. “I should’ve guessed it would be you.”

 

Merlin blinks. “You...what?”

 

“Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you,” Arthur says curtly. He moves further into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him, and Merlin wants to say something funny, something like,  _that’s not what you said yesterday_ , but this isn’t his Arthur and something tells him he's not in a joking mood. “Did they send you here to kill me, or is this to be another warning, like the last time?”

 

He touches his scarred cheek as he says it, almost smiling, though it’s not a happy smile. Merlin feels sick. It’s not him Arthur is expecting, but another Merlin. The Merlin who had apparently given him that scar.

 

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he blurts, before he can think better of it. “I swear, Arthur.”

 

Arthur laughs. “Forgive me if I’m not sure I believe you.” He moves across the room to sit down at his desk, spreading his broad hands on the wood in a mockery of patience. “Well? You might as well get on with it.”

 

When Merlin doesn’t move, Arthur’s gaze sharpens, and in another instant his sword is in his hand, the gleam of the blade like bared teeth in the firelight.

 

“You’re not Merlin.”

 

Merlin shakes his head. “No. That is—not the Merlin you know.”

 

Arthur’s head tilts. “The one I know?”

 

“It’s a long story.”

 

“Tell me anyway.”

 

Merlin tells him. Arthur does not put away his sword, but he does listen, and when Merlin is finished he motions for him to sit down and pours them both a goblet of wine. He pushes one towards Merlin.

 

“Supposing I believe you,” he says. “Why are you here, if not to kill me?”

 

Merlin takes a sip of the wine; it’s barely watered, close to full strength, the spices blooming thick and rich on his tongue. “I was curious.”

 

Arthur gives him an odd, sideways sort of smile, like he wants to say _of course you were_ , but doesn’t. “About what?”

 

“Possibilities.” Merlin shrugs. “Everything's different here.”

 

When Arthur presses, Merlin tells him as much as he dares. He tries to stick to generalities, but when he mentions that he's the other Arthur’s manservant, this Arthur makes an exclamation of surprise. “Still?”

 

“For years now,” Merlin confirms. He looks at the mirror Arthur curiously. “Was he—was I—?”

 

Arthur looks away. “For a time.”

 

“Then why…?”

 

“I let you—him—live when my father discovered his magic; he let me live when the Druids wanted me dead.” His mouth twists. “It was a repayment of sorts. We are neither of us offered many second chances.”

 

There's something in the way he looks at Merlin, then, that is familiar, and Merlin thinks he can guess at one more way this universe differs from his own: in this universe, Merlin is not the one whose love is unrequited.

 

 

 

From there, it seems so simple. In this universe, Arthur isn’t as difficult to persuade as he might have been. Merlin suspects that years of waiting and hope have worn him down, so that all it takes is a passing comment—a suggestion, really—and his fingers on Arthur's nape before they’re kissing, Arthur’s mouth hard and sweet against his, too much and not enough the way he’d always dreamed. He lets Arthur press him down onto the mattress and take him, feeling the king's breath hot against the back of his neck, arching shamelessly into each thrust like he's begging for it, like he'll die without Arthur inside him. There are moments when he’s half convinced it’s even true.

 

Afterwards, Arthur flips Merlin onto his back again, his mouth finding Merlin’s lips unerringly even as he coaxes the last shudders of orgasm from his body. His touch is soft, almost gentle, and Merlin clings to him, not wanting to let go even though he knows their time is short. 

 

"Stay," Arthur whispers.

 

“I’m not him,” Merlin says, breathless, feeling as if he might shake apart under the unexpected tenderness of Arthur's hands. “I’m not—I’m not him.”

 

“No.” Arthur looks at him, then, knuckles tracing the line of his cheekbone and down to the corner of his mouth. His eyes are unreadable in the dark. “But then again, neither am I.”

 


End file.
